Dragonfly: Any of various large insects of the order Odonata or suborder Anisoptera, having a long slender body and two pairs of narrow, net-veined wings that are usually held outstretched while the insect is at rest. Also called regionally darner, darning needle, mosquito fly, mosquito hawk, needle, skeeter hawk.
Poetry: The art or work of a poet.
Prolixity: Excessive wordiness in speech or writing; longwindedness

Showing posts with label Dust by Dorianne Laux. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dust by Dorianne Laux. Show all posts
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Dust by Dorianne Laux
This is my newest herb garden with mostly citrus-scented herbs for teas (Lemongrass, Lemon Bee Balm, Lemon Verbena, Lemon Thyme, and Lime Basil).
I've been losing poems right and left lately, daydreaming in the sun while inhaling the scent of my blooming Gardenias and reading, reading, reading. I lost an excellent poem just last night about firsts because I was too lazy to get up and grab my pen before I dozed off... so this poem seemed a perfect fit for today. We're still high and dry, thankfully. xoxo
Dust
by Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor---
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
and I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes---
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.
-----------------------------
"Traveler, there is no path,
paths are made by walking." ~Antonio Machado
------------------------------
"Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It's as though I could fly." ~Anne Sexton
-----------------------------
"An English poet, Philip Larkin, said that poetry doesn't start with an idea; it starts with a poem... You have to be open to mystery. If you are open to it, mystery will come. If you're not, why should it, actually?" ~Lucille Clifton
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"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science." ~Einstein
------------------------------
"If you need to visualize the soul, think of it as a cross between a wolf howl, a photon, and a dribble of dark molasses. But what it really is, as near as I can tell, is a packet of information. It's a program, a piece of hyperspatial software designed explicitly to interface with the Mystery. Not a mystery, mind you, THE Mystery.
The one that can never be solved. Data in our psychic program is often nonlinear, nonhierarchical, archaic, alive, and teeming with paradox. Simply booting up is a challenge, if not for no other reason than that most of us find acknowledging the unknowable and monitoring its intrusions upon the familiar and mundane more than a little embarrassing.
More immediately, by waxing soulful you will have granted yourself the possibility of ecstatic participation in what the ancients considered a divinely animated universe. And on a day to day basis, folks, it doesn't get any better than that."
- Tom Robbins, In Literature/Tom Robbins
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Dust by Dorianne Laux
I took these two photos today. The top photo is part of my kitchen window shrine. In front of the picture of Jesus is the skeleton of a fish that we found washed up on the beach in Galveston, Texas, many years ago. There were many of these bones, crucifix-shaped, just lying on the dirty sand. We picked them up reverently as they were quite fragile, and packed them into our suitcase. This is the only one left. The bloom is from one of my Orchids Ray gave me for Christrmas. One of the cats broke it off.
The other photo is the dying flame of my green healing meditation candle that I burned yesterday, flickering in front of one of my small collages. The candle burns down, but where does it go? There is no wax anywhere. Only the tiny piece of a wick remains of the tall, thin candle. It's a mystery.
I share with you a poem I love by Dorianne Laux from her amazing book, "What We Carry". Enjoy.
Love & Blessings,
~*~Marion~*~
**************************
Dust
By Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
**************************************
"The most tangible of all visible mysteries - fire." ~Leigh Hunt
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